


F͚̲̙̞̗̤̅̉͑̈́ͧ ̷͖͉̠̱̀A̻̩͉̱̫̗͇ͤͥ͒ͥͬ́ͥ͟ ̺̟̫̬̖ͣ͆C̴̺̟̖͖̣ ̩̲̹̟̟̫͑̑͋ͩ͒E͍ ̸͉͔̺͐ͮ̾̾ͫS̸͖̙̭͚̦̤̬͆̂ ͔͖͓̤̪̝̠ͪ̾̏̃͊ͮ͑A̼̖͚̮̿ ̙ͨ̍R̹͓̙ͧ ̸̱ͨ͂̒̔̀̾ͧE͖̗̥̠̭̠ͤ̽́ ͔̮̘̜A̛̪ͨ̑͋̑ ̧̯̝̺̹̞ͧ͋̈́Ḅ̘̌̎̀ͭ̇ ̞̱̫̤͕̀L͔̼̫̥ͬ͡ ̸̺͎̰̦̙̥̇̀̾U̟̙̥̤̗͇̟̇̄̋̎ͯ͋̚ ̎͐̇͒̒̽́R̯͈̅ͦͩ̍̾̅

by ThePancakePenguin



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Nightmares, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 07:03:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8614282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePancakePenguin/pseuds/ThePancakePenguin
Summary: B̴̘̗̤̝̳̠̔ͯ ̝̩̲ͬͮͨ̊͘L̅̈ͩ͆̌̇̋ ͇̬ͥ̊ͬ̇̑̔̚͘ͅU̾ͤ́̃ͅ ̳̯͕͎̟Ṟ̸̳͚̣ͥ̽ͯ͋ͤͯͧ ̣̜̮̖͎R͋͆̀̊̅́ ͙̞̙̥̤ͯ̅Y̶̯͔͚͙͉̬̻ͩ̊͂͑̚ ͓͕̪̩̫̯͂F̙̠͇͉͔͙̺ͣ͛ ͚̟̲̺͙̿́̚ͅÄ̳͉̰̺ͯͣͩ̂̌̌ ̢͓ͥͨ̅̐̌ͧ̒C̜̹̗̖͇ͦ͐ͫ͑ͩ̍̈́ ̩̠͒ͫͬ̊́Ȅ҉̫̝̥̞̳ ̴̣W̵̄̏̌͌ ͔̥͉̒͗͆ͦ͑̂̋̕ͅͅO̺̟͝ ͎̝̥̹̠̳̖̽͊ͫͪ́Ṇ̺̫́





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry  
> Inspired by this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n_QY00mUxQ8

He was numb.

When he saw Jenna's number flash across his screen, it should have been a sign. He should have known something was wrong. Why would Jenna be calling him? His confusion had quickly been replaced with dread when he heard sobbing coming from the other line.

"Jenna? What's wrong, what happened?"

"T-Tyler, he-he-he just-" she broke off with a wail. "I-I-I just came home from the store and, and, he was-he was just  _hanging_  there and I-"

He was shaking too much to hold onto his phone, resulting in him dropping it onto the floor of his kitchen. He practically threw himself onto the tiles, spilling his coffee and shattering his mug in the process. He tapped furiously and turned his speaker phone volume as loud as he could so he could hear Jenna over his thundering heartbeat.

"-ed an ambulance, but they-they couldn't do anything, he was already-"

He didn't hear the rest, because he promptly vomited before she could finish. The  _thought_ of what word was next was too much. Not possible.

_This is a prank. A twisted prank. Tyler is fine. I talked to him yesterday. He was fine. He is fine. He's fine he's finefinefinefine._

He sat against the wall, next to his own sick, sobbing into his hands. Tyler's mom called him later, telling him what he already knew. He blindly threw a charger and some clothes into a bag and drove to the nearest airport. He booked the soonest flight to Columbus, despite the consequences his bank account, electric bill, and fridge would face. He was on the plane in minutes and stared at his hands as the plane took off.

* * *

He somehow found himself in the lobby of a hospital, Jenna weeping into his shoulder. His family, his friends, and people from their label were there, only adding to the chaos. There were so many people, asking questions, crying, comforting, touching, that his brain eventually shut down. 

Despite everything, one fact rang true, even through his own denial.

_Tyler is dead._

* * *

He was sitting in an uncomfortable metal chair, staring at a casket as people cried and a pastor droned morosely about how "this was a  _tragedy_ ," and "he was so  _young_ ," and other clichés that would've made Tyler roll his eyes.

If he cared about spending the energy on it, he would've rolled his eyes too.

* * *

He was lying on a wet pillow, eyes stinging throat aching as he called Tyler's number again. He squeezed his eyes shut when his answer was _"Hey, this is Tyler, leave a message."_

He canceled the call and dialed again, waiting for it to ring out again so he could repeat the process, when the number picked up. He shot up from his bed, every muscle in his body tense.

"Tyler! Oh my god, are you there, answer me!"

There was a crackle, and after a few minutes of silence, he heard a whisper.

_"Don't let me be gone."_

"Wh-what?" he shook his head, tears spilling over.

The line was silent, and for a moment, he thought the call ended.

**_"DON'T LET ME BE!"_ **

The scream was so sudden he threw his phone on the sheets, a hand covering his ear. After a moment’s hesitation, he picked the phone up again.

He couldn’t tell if the ringing was coming from the phone or his ear. He couldn't tell if the rhythmic, distorted voice of his long-gone friend was only his imagination or real.

It still sent chills up his spine.

 _"T_ _͡_ _h̀eŗe’s ̡àn̢ ̷in_ _͠_ _f_ _͘_ _ést̢at̛io_ _͠_ _n̨ i̷n_ _͝_ _m̀y_ _͞_ _mind’s̸_ _͢_ _im̕ági̸n_ _͏_ _ation.̷ I_ _͝_ _̡h_ _͟_ _o̴pe th_ _͘_ _e̢y c̕h_ _͘_ _o̢ḱe_ _͏_ _oǹ sm̸ơk̷e_ _͝_ _'̢c̛a̴u̢se_ _͟_ _I̵’m_ _҉_ _̷smokin̕g t̨hem̀ ̶òút_ _͠_ _ţhe_ _͟_ _b́ase̴m̵en_ _҉_ _t. T̸hįs is_ _҉_ _not_ _͞_ _ra̡p_ _͠_ _, t̛h_ _͠_ _i_ _͠_ _s_ _҉_ _is_ _͜_ _̨not ̵hi_ _͏_ _p ̴hop̶,̛ just ̴anothe_ _͠_ _r a̶ttempt̶ ̶to_ _͝_ _ma̛k̕e_ _͏_ _̸t_ _͘_ _h_ _͜_ _e voic_ _͘_ _es s̢t_ _͠_ _o̵p.̵Ra_ _͘_ _p̶p_ _͜_ _i_ _͞_ _n̢g ̸to̵ p̡r_ _҉_ _ov_ _͟_ _e n_ _͡_ _o̡thi̧n_ _͜_ _g,_ _͜_ _j̧us̀t_ _͞_ _̢wrít_ _҉_ _i̕ng ́to_ _͝_ _s_ _͜_ _ay_ _͝_ _s̵o_ _͝_ _met̛hing, 'cau_ _͘_ _s̵e̢_ _͜_ _I̧ ̢w̸a̸sn’̧t_ _͡_ _t_ _͘_ _h̴e̷ o_ _͢_ _nly_ _҉_ _one w̧ho_ _͞_ _wa_ _͠_ _şn̛’̷t r_ _͏_ _u_ _͘_ _s̡hin_ _͢_ _ģ to say_ _͜_ _n̢ot̡hin_ _͘_ _g._ _͝_ _͜_ _T̷h̀is d_ _͟_ _oe_ _͞_ _s_ _͘_ _n’t ̨mea_ _͠_ _n_ _͝_ _͡_ _I_ _͠_ _lost_ _͢_ _m_ _҉_ _y d_ _͡_ _r_ _͠_ _eam̷,̷ ̛it’s_ _͟_ _̷just_ _͏_ _͏_ _rìg̵ht ̀n_ _͡_ _o_ _͝_ _w_ _͟_ _I_ _͏_ _’̧ve gǫt_ _͡_ _a ̸r̕eall_ _҉_ _y c_ _͢_ _r_ _͡_ _az̸y̶ min̷d̶ ̢to clean̕.̢ ̴K̶no_ _͜_ _w wh̶a̢t̸ ̵I mea̢n?"_

The line steadily got more distorted and warped, crackling with static. He felt like his skin was melting off, gluing the phone to his ear.

 _"́No͏,͞ ̴I d́i͜dn҉’t un̶der̢s҉t͞and͞ ̕a͞ ̢t̀h҉i҉n̷g ̸you ̶s̡aid͜. Įf Ì di̧ḑn’t know ̢b̷e̢t́te̡r̛ I’d͏ g͘uȩs͏s̵ ͘y̧o͡u’͝re a͝l̵l already͠ d҉e̷a͘d̨;̡ mindless z͜om̢biès ͢wa͞l͢k͢i̕n͏g ąr͜ouńd͡ with͟ a ̶li̧mp̛ an̕d̡ ͟a͞ hu͏nch.͠ S͜ay̢i͟ng̀ ̀s͟tuf́f͟ ̕l̢i͢k͞e 'yo͟u o͡n͘ly ͠l͜i̸ve on̢ce'͟.Yea҉h͢ onc͜e͜. ͢Y̷ou g̶o͟t ̕o͝n̷e̕ time ̕t͢o ̵f͘ig͏ur̡e it̴ ou͘t̴.͜ ̷O͜n͡e t͢ime͝ ̴t̶ǫ ͢twi̴s̀t ̵a͠n̴d̨ ͘on̕e ti̴me ́to ͠sho͜u͝t.͝ One͘ ̡t͘im͢e ̕t͠o͟ t̀híńk ͠a̴nd͘ ́I̴ ͞s̢a̧ỳ ͘ẁe͏ s̸t̸art n͏o͜w,҉ bèc̨a͜ús͡e d͜e͏át̵h in͢sp͟i̕re̸s me like a ̶d̕o̷g_ **_inspir͟es҉ ͘a҉ r͞ab͜b͜i̶t̶"̡_ **

* * *

Josh gasped awake, limbs trembling in his tangled sheets. He tried to flail his way free, but that only resulted in him falling out of his bed, hitting his head on the nightstand and landing on the floor with a dull thud.

"Josh! Are you okay?" The sound of blankets being thrown, feet padding across the room, a silhouette forming in the dark.

He groaned as someone lifted his head, touching the quickly forming bump. He squinted up at the person holding him with disbelief.

"Tyler..."

"Yeah, yeah, it's me. What happened?"

He clenched his jaw and used the other man's body to pull himself up, wrapping his arms around Tyler's neck and hooking his chin over his shoulder. Tyler rested his hands on Josh's hips, his concern and confusion growing.

"Josh?"

"You...you'd tell me if something was wrong, right," he asked shakily. "You'd tell me if you got bad, you'd ask for help, right?"

"Yes, of course I would. Is that what...Oh, _Josh,_ " Tyler sighed as he felt the back of his sleep shirt dampen. He helped Josh untangle from the sheets and lifted him onto the bed, laying down next to him. He pulled the blankets over them and put his arm around the drummer, rubbing his still shuddering sides. "Don't worry, nothing happened. Nothing's happened for a long time, thanks to you. I'm fine, you're fine, everything's okay. Just get some sleep."

Josh pulled the arm around his waist against his chest in a tight grip, letting Tyler nose his hair and whisper soothing words until he drifted off.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I ended it on a happy note cause it was too sad.


End file.
